Post Bellum
by gin and ironic
Summary: Harry has memory loss after the last battle with Voldemort; Ron tries to help him regain it. RonHarry and HarryOCs, slash, angst, completed.
1. Act I: Primordium

Title: Post Bellum  
Author: ginandironic  
Summary: Harry has memory loss after the last battle with Voldemort; Ron tries to help him regain it.  
Pairing: Ron/Harry  
Rating: R  
Warnings: Mentions of het, angst, rageful characters.  
Notes: Written for the hprwfqf challenge #45: Harry has memory loss after the last battle with Voldemort; Ron tries to help him regain it. I certainly took the long way round writing this, filling it with backstory and progressing very slowly to the actual challenge. Hopefully it's not boring; I wanted to illustrate how Ron felt about Harry during the last few years at Hogwarts, so his feelings towards amnesiac!Harry wouldn't be out of place. Primordium "origin," Propositum "theme of discourse," Patrocinor "to protect" (or "I am protected"). Thank you to Nepenthene for her quick beta and Xander for his greatly appreciated and excellent beta-pedantry. Without these two, this fic would suck. More than it does, that is.

**Act I: Primordium**

There was a slight shuffle from inside the bathroom as Ron started to turn the handle. It was too late to stop the force of his shoulder pressing against it flung the door open.

Ginny and Harry looked everywhere but at Ron. Ginny wrestled with her nightgown, tugging it down her thighs as Harry struggled to pull a shirt on. Ron stood there, open-mouthed and rapidly flushing, until Ginny gave up and shoved past them both with a strangled-sounding noise. The door started creeping closed so Ron forcefully shoved it back open. Harry looked up, finally.

"Ron, I can"

"Don't bother," Ron hissed, backing away from the open doorway and the undeniable sight in front of him:the particular muss of Harry's hair, the gloss of saliva still on his lip, the _smell_. The memory of Ginny's thighs, Harry's bare chest. It made him want to be sick but Harry was standing inside of the closest loo. "I'm going back to bed." The tone of his voice made it perfectly clear Harry was not to follow.

Breakfast later was uncomfortable, to say the least. Molly served up conversation alongside the bacon, but no one responded. She eyed them all, hawk-like, and kept making comments about Ginny, who had begged out claiming a stomach ache. "The girl just can't stand to be seen without being done up," she said, fretting while she spooned Arthur another portion of eggs.

"S' enough, mum," Ron said, watching Harry shove a fork around his plate out of the corner of his eye.

"Women know these things, Ronald," she replied, settling back in her chair and taking a sip of orange juice. "Ginny's going through another one of her phases."

"Boys," Arthur supplied, winking.

Ron slammed down his fork. "I said it's enough!" He stood from the table, paying no mind to Harry, who looked faintly green.

"Ron!"

"I'm… going upstairs," he mumbled.

His mother's voice followed him as he left "Well, I _never_…"

Ron stomped up the stairs, drowning out his father's reply.

One very timid knock. Ron rolled over. "What?"

"It's me." Harry's voice was as quiet as Ron has ever heard it. "I'm. Can I come in?"

"You'll do what you like, won't you?" Ron said sourly, rolling back over to bury his head in a fluffed pillow.

The door creaked open then shut with a soft click. "Ron?" Ron did Harry no favors. He adjusted the angle of his cheek against the pillow. "Right. I've just come to apologize. It, um. Wasn't. As it seemed, I guess."

"As it seemed?" Ron snarled, taking them both by surprise when he jerked himself upright and, in a fit, snatched up the pillow and clutched it to his chest. "It _seemed _like you were snogging my little sister!"

"Oh! You…" Harry was flushed red and gnawing his lower lip between his teeth. "You didn't see it all, did you?"

"I've tried to erase it from my memory, but what I saw was enough."

There was an odd mixture of relief and terror on Harry's face. "Ginny wanted to tell you. I knew you'd…" he gestured at Ron. "Be upset."

"How sharp of you, Harry." His fingers flexed around the pillow. "You knew I'd be upset over my best friend… feeling up or doing whatever with my sister."

"We were. We've been." Harry struggled to articulate, studying the posters behind Ron's bed.

A horrible feeling started in his stomach and washed itself through Ron's whole body. "You aren't serious."

Harry gave a short, embarrassed nod. "Yeah. We've been doing… that."

"You've been bonking my sister?" The words were deadly slow but really it hadn't sunk in yet. "You've been bonking my _sister_?" His voice cracked cleanly.

Harry shifted. "Yeah. But it's not"

"Get out," Ron said, already standing in case he needed to shove Harry out. "Get out!"

"Ron, please"

"I said," and he put a threatening hand to Harry's shoulder, his fingers trembling, "to get out."

"Ron…" Harry's eyes were desperate, a bottle-green Ron had never seen before. "I'm not hurting her, I promise, I would never."

"What about Dean, then?" Ron exploded, the thought occurring to him. "Did they break up?"

Harry's gaze dropped to his mouth. Something in his eyes shifted. "No. I imagine they're going to. I mean, I think she wants to, now."

Oh Merlin. "You're a sodding arse, Potter." He hadn't even intentionally thought to call Harry that, but the feelings welling inside were akin to those he found around Malfoy. Crisp, clear, uninhibited rage. "I can't believe you." Everything was different since Sirius died, Ron realized. Harry walked around now like he was owed something. "You were bonking my sister in our house. In our _bathroom_?"

"Ginny… She's. She's great, awfully great, she's been"

"I don't want to know what she's been."

"Well ever since last year she's been different. She's grown up,I guess." Harry was speaking quickly, like he was out of breath. Like Ron was going to stop listening and shove him out at any second.

Which he was. "Ever since she stopped fawning after you, is that it?"

"Yeah, that's it. I hate it when people act… that way around me, Ron, and you know it."

"So you're saying you hated her for four years, until she got over you. And then you shagged her?"

"I didn't hate her! I just. I wouldn't have."

"Okay, you're done. This is done." He reached behind Harry and yanked open his bedroom door.

Harry hesitated, tried to catch Ron's eye. He finally gave up and shuffled out of the room.

Things had not been the same since.

It would have been better, Ron reflected, if Harry had fucked Hermione instead. Hermione was reasonable about things, rational. She would have sat Ron down, sat him and Harry down actually, and explained. Made them figure it all out. Things wouldn't have been the same but they wouldn't be like this, either.

Ginny tried to talk to him on the train. She said it had only been a few times, just a few times, why was heThe Prefect's compartment door had been summarily slammed in her face. Ron wanted to tell her to explain it all to Dean, but it seemed like they did eventually break up over summer hols.

It did not take Hermione long to notice that Ron and Harry weren't speaking to each other, although Harry did keep casting anxious glances in Ron's direction. "Fine, what's going on?" Her tone was tired another problem to layer on top of the others, another Triwizard Tournament-esque feud, another long and dangerous year.

"Harry shagged Ginny."

Hermione's eyes widened in surprise. "They're going out? Ginny never said."

"No, they're not going out. They shagged. I caught them this summer I think it's stopped."

"Oh, Ron."

She went off to find Harry after. He wanted her to stick around, to try and tell her how he panicked he was at the thought of her interfering, maybe forcing Ginny and Harry to date. He didn't want to see them _happy_, not when he was so miserable. It was enough! Enough that they'd done it and efficiently torn Harry and Ron's friendship in two. No amount of apologies and her meddling would fix it.

It was bad. He couldn't look at his sister. He couldn't look at Harry. He kept imagining Harry's cock going inside of her, her slight breasts heaving, his glasses fogging up, their pale reflections in the bathroom mirror. The worst was imagining when he caught them, what they would have been up to before the door swung open. Ginny's legs around Harry, maybe balanced on the bloody counter, her nightgown bunched around her waist. The images kept him awake at night; he'd have to get up and walk or read or hit something to try and calm down.

The morning after telling Hermione, he sat down in the Great Hall and tried to ignore Harry, who was across from him. Hermione was at his elbow, saying things like "pass the salt," and "lovely day for Quidditch, isn't it?" Once or twice Harry murmured a reply, but not a sound came from Ron. She cornered him again just before Potions.

"Ron, this has got to stop. Harry's sorry, you're miserable, Ginny's a wreck. And once again I'm caught in the middle." There was a mocking tone to her voice Ron did not appreciate.

"That's your choice, isn't it? No one asked. You can bloody well pick a side; then you wouldn't be in the middle." He made to leave but she stopped him easily.

"I am not choosing sides! Leastways not between you and Harry, you're both acting like idiots. Harry won't come near you or Ginny for fear you'll kill him."

"He's got the right idea," Ron said savagely. "I'm not going to forgive and forget."

Hermione pulled herself up to her full, not-so considerable height. She tried to stare him down, looking the whole while like a miniature McGonagall. "This is not something to ruin a friendship over."

"Then what is?" he asked, making a second attempt to leave. She didn't try and stop him this time.

They ended up speaking out of necessity. Professor McGonagall, probably out of some misjudged sense of House responsibility, paired them for a research project in Transfiguration.

"Right." Ron rolled up his parchment and stared at a chart on the classroom wall. "How do you want to do this? I was thinking a practical demonstration."

"Ron."

"I could turn you into a toad. Or a cockroach. How about that?"

"Ron, I'm"

"and I could just leave you that way because you _don't know when to shut up_." That said, Ron glanced over to see Harry staring at him mournfully. "What is it?" he snapped, the product of two months of nearly unspent rage bubbling to the surface. McGonagall was eyeing them with a look of detached satisfaction.

"At least you're talking to me," Harry huffed, pulling up a chair to Ron's desk. "That's something."

"Not by choice." He busied himself with unrolling his parchment again and writing, in as neat a script as he could manage, both his last name and Harry's. "You didn't say what you wanted to do."

"I want." Ron didn't need to look up to know Harry was biting his lip and looking horribly pensive. "I want my best friend. I want to pass notes in Potions and talk about Quidditch scores."

"I reckon Hermione won't appreciate you passing her notes in Potions." Ron started outlining a list of possible projects. 'Look up origins of Animagi,' he wrote.

"Don't be daft! I meant you."

Ron sighed wearily. "I know that."

"Ginny and I stopped… well, you know?"

"I know." He found he could look at Harry but not directly in the eyes. "I know you did." Ron focused on studying the way a cowlick shifted the direction of Harry's part, just near his hairline.

"I won't go near her, I promise. Hell, I don't even _want _to anymore, truth be told."

"You are saying the exact wrong things, Harry. I have to hand it to you." He bent his head and wrote 'Switching Spells?'

"Would you stop… writing that?" Harry's Seeker-quick hand reached out suddenly and ripped the paper out from under Ron. The quill dragged an ugly, inky line down the page and the nib ripped a hole. "Look at me, talk to me. Tell me what to say so I can _fix this_."

"Isn't really something you can fix," Ron explained, pulling out a new sheet of parchment.

McGonagall started round to their desk, seemingly fed up with waiting for the two of them to patch things up. Ron lazily kept writing nonsense ideas while Harry scurried to lean in and look busy. "So," he whispered, "if I can't fix it, what I am supposed to do? Just forget about you? Forget about my _best friend_?" He said it outraged, like it was an insult.

"It can be done," Ron hissed back, flinching when Harry's grunt of exasperation hit his ears. McGonagall nodded at the pair of them before moving on to another desk.

"God, Ron. I wouldn't be this upset if you… shagged Hermione!"

Ron felt vaguely amused. "I'd rather you had."

Harry looked repulsed. "What!"

"Well." He stopped and tried to formulate the words. "She's. Smart about stuff. I'd know she was thinking if she did it. And she'd be able to set things back to right after." It sounded a lot more logical in his head, if Harry's expression was anything to go by.

"I didn't understand any of that. Are you saying Ginny wasn't thinking when… when we…?"

Ron shook his head. "Not really. I just wouldn't feel like this."

"Like what?"

"Betrayed, I think." Everything failed to come out right. Hermione's previous scolding, her going on about him 'acting like an idiot' and overreacting started to seem less and less ridiculous.

"Betrayed? Ron, if I was you, I think I'd be more upset if I shagged Hermione than Ginny. I mean, you." He dropped his voice again. "You like Hermione."

"Well, yeah."

"But it would still be better? You don't _like_ Ginny, not like that."

He could feel his ears turning red. "Of course not! That's not even the point. It would be different. And for your information," Ron glanced around to see if anyone was listening, "I don't _like_ Hermione like that any more than I like Ginny like that."

It took a few moments, but Harry's brow furrowed and he leaned in even closer. "But I thought… You don't?"

"No!" He didn't really have to fake the shudder. "Can you imagine dating her? 'Ronald, why did you think I would be partial to chocolates? Is it because you believe the stereotype that _all_ girls must like chocolates? Because I am NOT all girls.'"

Both Harry and Ron struggled to hold in laughter. "Oh, I suppose that's true." He glanced over at Ron's makeshift list and smirked at it before continuing. "Listen. Does this mean we're all right? I'm really tired of listening to Malfoy gloat about 'the wrong sort.'"

"Yes, it _would_ rather crush his little soul if he saw we had one up on him," Ron mused, finally setting down his quill. "But this isn't over, not by far."

Harry nodded enthusiastically. "I know. I'll try hard to make it up to you. I won't go out with any girls you like, I'll stay away from Ginny."

Ron stared at him levelly for a moment, deciding. "You promise?"

"Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley?" McGonagall's stern voice broke in. They distanced themselves and looked at her sheepishly.

"Sorry, Professor," Harry said.

"Yeah, sorry."

"See that you stay focused or I shall have to take points," she admonished, though there was something about her Ron guessed was pleased.

He turned back to the project and continued compiling ideas. He was halfway through writing 'Link between Potions and Transfig' when Harry's quill startled him, the hand holding it knocking his own hand away.

'I promise,' Harry wrote.

Things progressed in a slow manner. Harry still sat across from him at lunch but Ron would occasionally ask him about classes, or Quidditch, or Neville's latest blunder, whatever happened to be on the roster for that day. They eventually decided on doing their project on the links between Transfigurations and Defense Against the Dark Arts, often discussing it over meals while Hermione watched, looking pleased.

"I'm glad you two are trying to patch things up," Hermione said to Ron one night, after dragging him to the common room for a study session. "Things are a lot happier."

"Yeah, I guess so," he said, tapping his quill impatiently as he couldn't remember the properties of mugwort. "Er, can you help me with this?"

She sighed at him but held out her hand for his notes anyway. "How's your project coming along?" she asked.

Ron watched her eyes as she read. "Well. Harry's just gone to check if Professor Williams would possibly give it to Snape to grade it for Potions too."

"Don't hold your breath," Hermione snorted. Snape had given her an abysmal score on the last exam and she was still harping about it to anyone who would listen. "But it's a nice thought." Finished, she handed him his notes. "Mugwort's leaves are used the same as wormwood in Potions."

"Great, thanks." He scribbled that down. "Er, does Harry talk to you about it?" He'd been wanting to know what Harry said out of the buffer of Ron's hearing; he wondered if he was as remorseful and apologetic.

"A little. He's happy you're speaking. Oh!"

Ron looked up at her, startled. "What?"

"I forgot. Harry and Cho are going out. Or," she laughed mockingly, "that's what the rumor mill says. Harry hasn't said a thing."

An odd feeling of irritation started to overtake him. Already? He had little doubt that if Cho wanted it, Harry would date her in a heartbeat. Even if she was, as Harry described it, a 'vapid human hosepipe.' "I can't believe him," he seethed. Hermione looked taken aback. "It's just on to the next, isn't it?"

"Ron?"

He rolled up his notes with an angry swish of his wand. "I think I'm done studying, Hermione."

"All… all right."

"Is it true?"

Harry looked more than a little shocked to see Ron sitting on his bed. "Ron? What are you doing?"

"Are you going out with Cho?"

With a bemused expression, Harry dumped his satchel on the floor near his bed. "No."

"That's not what Hermione said." He raised his chin stubbornly.

"Yes, she did tell me you'd probably be after my throat for that." He sighed and took a seat on Neville's bed, idly grabbing the nearest post for support. When Ron didn't speak, he sighed again. "I shagged her last week, if that's what you're trying to figure out."

Ron didn't know what to say. "Are you trying to fuck your way through the entire student body, or something? Is this your idea of 'making it up' to me?"

Harry's jaw dropped. "I didn't think you'd care!" He blanched. "Oh, Merlin, you don't like Cho, do you?"

"No, of course not. But here you are, fucking around after messing with my sister!"

"Am I supposed to check with you every time I fancy a girl?"

"You don't fancy her, you shagged her." _And yes_, his mind supplied. _You are supposed to check._

"Ron, this is stupid, and I want to go to bed. Can we talk about it tomorrow?" Harry did sound tired.

"Yeah," he bit off. "We'll talk about it tomorrow."

Tomorrow turned into never. The fury Ron had felt the night before, while it still lingered, didn't seem very reasonable in the light of day. Hermione lectured him at breakfast about 'meddling in people's private business,' and all he had to say on the subject was "Harry's my best friend, that makes it my private business too." Harry, luckily enough for Ron, was not around to hear it.

Ginny was. She tried talking to him again.

"Just forget it, Ginny."

She studied him. "Nothing's changed, then? I'm still your sister?"

He snorted. "Obviously."

But everything had changed. He could get by with Harry; Harry was just his mate, but Ginny was his sister. When he looked at her, she seemed different. Older, dirtier. Every so often he'd picture her reflection in the bathroom mirror as she and Harry… Well. Things had changed.

Harry broke up with Luna just before winter hols. She didn't seem too torn up over it, but you never could tell with Luna. Ron was mostly glad; at least he wouldn't have to put up with whispers of their trysts in the Astronomy Tower (really, how obvious could you be, doing it in the open like that?). There was still an air of tension between Harry and Ron, although they both tried to put it aside. It was easy enough to do, with Quidditch and exams and training for You-Know-Who's defeat.

Harry and Hermione both stayed over at Hogwarts in order to keep practicing. Ginny went home as Bill and Charlie were going to be there, but Ron ultimately decided to stay over too, not really wanting to go home to a claustrophobically full house another year.

It was somewhat of a relief that there was no chance of Harry's shagging _anybody_; everyone else who stayed over was either male, repulsive, or... Snape.

"Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger."

They both looked up at him expectantly. "Sir?"

"Have you seen Mr. Potter? I assigned him detention and he's predictably nowhere to be found." There wasn't one hint of politeness in Snape's tone.

"Can he do that during break?" Ron whispered.

Hermione elbowed him sharply. "Ron, why don't you go check the tower?"

"… Yeah."

The trek to Gryffindor Tower always seemed so desolate, without the bustle of students. Even if they weren't crowding the halls, when school was in there was the _thought_ of them. He gave the password to the Fat Lady and jogged up the stairs.

"Harry?"

No sign of him. His bed was made and his cloak was in his trunk.

Ron was on his way to admit defeat to Snape when the muffled sound of water running sounded. Of course. Harry was in the showers. Silly git probably lost track of time.

"Harry?" He pushed into the nearest bathroom. A blast of steam hit him full on. "Merlin it's sweltering in here." Ron was close to trying all the stalls.

"Oh, _fuck_." It was Harry's voice, albeit filtered through the shower of running water in an acoustic room. "Oh fuck, _yes_," he groaned.

Ron froze. Harry was fucking someone in the showers.

He didn't mention it. He sat at dinner and listened half-heartedly to Hermione's questions about detention and Harry's stupid jokes about Snape. Ron carefully studied each and every person seated trying to figure out which one of the girls Harry'd been with in the showers.

_In the showers_.

It wasn't as if his friend was a… slut. To Ron's knowledge this was the fourth partner. Compared to others in their year, Harry was practically a virgin (unlike Ron, who was _literally_ one). Four people for a teenaged boy, Ron reasoned, wasn't an incredible number. And after what Harry had been through… Hermione kept talking about comfort and closeness. It made sense.

But it still made Ron furious.

Harry came to stay at the Burrow during the latter half of summer. Ginny wisely decided she'd stay with Hermione and then, ironically enough, Luna during Harry's visit. Some of the ever-present tension had eased – it had, after all, been exactly a year since Ron had caught him with Ginny.

"I can't believe this is going to be our last year at Hogwarts," Harry said dazedly. He had been randomly spouting variations on the same theme for weeks.

"Yes, I know. Do you think you'll get a flat in London or something?"

Harry shrugged. "Dunno. It'll have to be somewhere safe on account of Voldemort."

"Yeah," Ron agreed lamely, not wanting to think about that. "Too bad you can't stay with the Dursleys."

Harry looked up, wide-eyed and shocked. "Ron, you know I don't"

"I know, I know. I was just saying. Because that's where you're safest." He sheepishly cleared his throat and tried to think of something to change the subject to.

"I'm never safe," Harry muttered, appearing to calm down again.

Dumbledore started cooping Harry up even more. Ron hadn't thought it was possible to do so no Hogsmeade weekends, no access to the Floo Network, no Quidditch, and he'd had to cancel DA meetings for the last two weeks running. Harry only moved back and forth between classrooms, the dormitory, and Snape's dungeons.

"He agreed to start with Occlumency again," Harry explained, looking tired and sunken after another lesson.

"Why did he do that?"

"Well, we don't actually speak outside of the lessons. I reckon that's a big part."

Hermione broke in to ask how Harry was feeling. "I'm all right," he said slowly, perhaps trying to convince himself. "I'm tired. It's really draining."

Ron got the feeling, when Harry cast multiple wards around his bed at night, that he was practicing more than Occlumency.

The year was proving to be a whirling, ceaseless distraction. Time went by so fast Ron almost forgot how he went to sleep each night and woke up each morning. There were exams to plan for, endless tests to pass, Slytherins to avoid.

Harry had determinedly set time aside each week for DA meetings when there was an attack on the family of a first-year from Ravenclaw. There was little doubt in Ron's mind how hard Dumbledore and the others must have been working Harry. His spells, formerly a little hesitant and reserved (as if he was afraid of them blowing up in his face or turning into stigma like Parseltongue in second year), were blasting out at full power with nary a blink.

Harry set them routines, first in pairs where Ron had to think quickly against Hermione's clever wand-work, and then alone, casting things they scarcely understood. They revisited easy defense spells, casting on objects; blowing them up, knocking them over, inflating them, shrinking them. It was busy, tiring work and there was no question as to if they were going to need it.

The Ministry gave daily statements to the _Prophet_ endless reassurances that "everything is under control," and "the general populace need not worry over You-Know-Who's return last year." The only Auror reports people caught wind of had to do with run-of-the-mill incidents. They were, apparently, leaving everything up to Dumbledore, and Dumbledore was leaving everything up to Harry.

Stupid prophecy.

Ron watched Neville accidentally combust a pillow and at least had the guilty relief of knowing they had the better pick of Boy Who Lived.

The entire class of seventh**-**years kept paranoid watch during the Leaving Feast, unable to believe Voldemort hadn't attacked once during Harry's final year at Hogwarts. Gryffindor sat around in their pointed black hats, whispering fearfully, clammy hands clutching wands under the table.

"He's not going to attack," Harry suddenly said. Everyone, even a few students from other houses who had overheard, looked up at him. "He knows I'm safe here."

This put most everyone at ease, although a few still wore pinched and anxious expressions, not entirely convinced. Hermione watched Dumbledore's speech and toast, mouth set in a taut line.

"What's to stop him from striking as soon as we arrive at Kings Cross?" she whispered so only Ron could hear her. "The second that Dumbledore's gone…" She shuddered, staring unseeingly at her plate.

Harry reached over and touched her arm. "Hermione, it's going to be fine."

"I wish I had your confidence," she said, snorting, and reached with shaky hands for a final sip of Pumpkin juice.

Ron knew it was bad, seeing Hermione frightened. Somehow it had never looked this bad, not before he stood on the edge of this precipice.

Hogwarts was behind them. No one knew what was ahead.


	2. Act II: Propositum

Title: Post Bellum  
Author: ginandironic  
Summary: Harry has memory loss after the last battle with Voldemort; Ron tries to help him regain it.  
Pairing: Ron/Harry  
Rating: R  
Warnings: Mentions of het, angst, rageful characters.  
Notes: Written for the hprwfqf challenge #45: Harry has memory loss after the last battle with Voldemort; Ron tries to help him regain it. Primordium "origin," Propositum "theme of discourse," Patrocinor "to protect" (or "I am protected"). Thank you Xander for his greatly appreciated and excellent beta-pedantry. Without him, this fic would suck. More than it does, that is.

**Act II: Propositum**

It was his one day of rest; leisure, if you wanted to call it that. Ron preferred "sleeping." And it was what he did for chunks of hours at a time, before he woke up sweating. Got up, then, to use the loo and scrub his face, avoiding the mirror at all costs. It clucked at him in a way annoyingly reminiscent of his mother. He flicked his wand and it shut up. He went back to bed. This happened several times.

Hermione helped Snape with the potions. She was the only one, Snape said, with an OWL high enough – that is, aside from Draco Malfoy, but Draco Malfoy was long since dead. He fought for the wrong side, even if time was proving it the winning side. She was turning into someone quite like Snape; greasy, snappish and tired, but they all were tired. The potion-makers didn't have a monopoly on that one.

He was awake for long moments before exhaustion took him. Long weeks of fighting without reprieve gave him permanent, Moody-like suspicion. Any little noise jerked him from the lull. All he could do was think, and even thinking was hard. His mind was overcrowded with images and plans and strategies and curses he now knew intimately, inside and out like a careful lover. Ron needed sleep, needed his day of rest and relaxation, but Snape and Hermione couldn't spare Sleeping Draughts; they were needed for the wounded. And all the Dreamless Sleep was given to Harry. Without it Voldemort made him scream so loud everyone could hear it, charmed tents or no.

Ron just wanted to _sleep_. How hard could it be? How hard could it bloody well be to sleep in comfort for more than an hour or two at a time? He rolled over and punched a pillow. His wand dug into his stomach from the squished angle, but didn't break: too many protection charms. His creaky bed felt like a joke compared to the cozy double at the Burrow, long since abandoned, and felt even more unreasonable when he compared it to the bed in his old dormitory at Hogwarts, freshly turned down courtesy of the house elves.

Merlin, this wasn't a life. It was a stark, hostile imitation of one. War didn't bring friends, just allies. Ron found he had to detach completely, look at his comrades as faceless incubi or death would crush him as easily as Crucio, day after day after nights when he didn't dare sleep.

So he really needed to sleep now.

A few people were always having sex. They weren't even discreet about it; didn't use their own tents half the time. Ron counted himself lucky to find wartime a real turn-off: it ignited no sense of primal fear, no need to copulate, to lose himself in another person. He felt… nothing whatsoever on that scale, but for mild irritation at those who fell victim.

Harry was, predictably, one of them. He fucked anything moving and, Ron was stunned to find after a disastrous raid, some things that didn't quite. Harry had fucked Lavender, and although it hadn't been in the Infirmary Tent (as it was full and she'd been placed under care in her own quarters), Ron could never squelch the shiver of disgust when he thought of what lengths they must have gone to in order to do it. Dumbledore spoke about war bringing out the extremes in everyone, both the good and the bad, and Ron could easily see how this was true.

He didn't know Harry anymore. It was probably because of his inability to connect the past with the present, with the reality of what they were doing. He imagined when the war was over they would spend a good few hours in a pub getting pissed and talking things out. Like they should have done a year or two ago, maybe right after Ron caught him with Ginny (only perhaps without the pub bit). There were still ties between the two, and when the odd thought appeared in Ron's mind, the dwelling fear of Harry's _death_, you know, because it really might happen, he'd get this great wrench in his stomach and could hardly function enough to draw his wand. Ron didn't let himself think those thoughts, at least, no more than he could help.

The shouts weren't what woke him. He was used to shouts and could tune them out; being tented so near the Infirmary, he could clearly tell when the nurses were so harried they couldn't remember to put up simple Silencing wards forced him to do it.

What woke him was Hermione bursting into his tent. He heard the wards chime even in sleep and shot up in bed, sweaty and already going for his wand.

"What?" he snapped, once he knew who it was.

Then he took a look at her. There was blood all down her front staining her white Potions smock a valentine pink. Ron swore and didn't bother to pull on shoes.

"Who is it?" he asked, knowing it had to be bad if Hermione was involved personally. Dean and Seamus' faces flashed through his mind and he had a hard time steadying himself, wobbly from sleep and swiftly-suppressed fear.

Her mouth opened and she blinked at him. This was so very un-Hermione-like Ron paused, one hand at the flap of his tent. He looked at her, her eyes turned down. "H-Harry."

A tendril of fear Ron hadn't been able to restrain jumped in his stomach, latched around his heart. "Where is he? Is he dead?" Far too efficient for a best friend, really, but Ron knew to act now and feel later.

"No, Severus got him in time."

"Snape?"

They were moving briskly now, over the dead grass and past the housing tents. It looked passably like families camping for the World Cup, but there'd been no professional Quidditch for nearly six months. Another casualty, one Ron actually allowed himself to mourn.

"He—went out to gather ingredients and found Harry at the edge of our wards."

"What the fuck was he doing?" Ron spat, pushing past someone with perhaps too much force; they stumbled and fell. "He's not supposed to be that close to the fighting." He was supposed to be training or practicing spells with the troops, even cooped up in his tent. He was not supposed to fight yet, not supposed to know what it looked like. He didn't know why, but it was imperative.

"V-Voldemort's dead, Ron. He. We think he killed him."

He didn't even freeze. Just kept walking, nearly at Snape and Hermione's work tent now. He pushed the flap aside for her and followed her inside, close at her heels, wand first checking the perimeter just like he'd been trained. "Who else?"

When Ron's eyes adjusted to the much dimmer light, he saw Snape standing at a table, looking stoically ahead like someone under a trance, but he was stirring furiously.

"I have the blood," Hermione said shortly. She turned to Ron but avoided his gaze. "Harry's lost a lot."

"What?" Ron boggled. Snape's eyes flickered to him meaningfully. "Oh. That's why I'm here. Right." He rolled up his sleeve without prompt and settled uncomfortably on a stool. "Do what you need to."

Hermione cast several spells and suddenly there was a small slice on his arm, starting to seep blood. He turned away, not hurting but always queasy when it came to his own wounds, however minor. Hermione picked up a vial from near Snape's elbow and maneuvered Ron's arm so it dripped a steady flow. "How much does he need?"

"As much as we can give," she murmured, tapping at a vein and gently rotating the vial. He forced himself to watch as she cast a spell he didn't know and more blood started to pour. "I'm going next; you're going to have to stir. Then Severus."

Apprehension. He was crap at Potions. "Fine." Ron covered up the feelings with a brisk tone. "What's his status?" What _happened_, for Merlin's sake?

It wasn't Hermione who answered him. "Several rounds of the Cruciatus Curse have left him with some amount of brain damage. The Dark Lord found it prudent to use Skinning Spells and… various other methods of torture. I've repaired his skin, but I'm no mediwizard and the brain damage is beyond my skill." Snape kept stirring and staring into space.

No one spoke for a long moment. Finally, as Hermione pulled the vial away and cast a Healing charm, Ron managed to extract himself from the silence. "How did Harry do it?"

Hermione's lips quirked into a humorless moue. "An exorcism."

Ron's eyebrows rose as he pressed cautious fingers to the newly healed skin of his forearm. Hermione was already moving again, stepping over to Snape and checking his progress. She beckoned Ron over and he stood from the stool, feeling quite dizzy but not intolerably so.

"Eighty clockwise rotations a minute, Weasley," Snape instructed.

Ron took up the ladle, surprisingly without any problems. Amazing what adrenalin did. Once he'd spent a few seconds getting the rhythm down pat and praying he wouldn't bollocks it up and kill Harry, Ron watched Snape tilt Hermione's arm so the vial could better collect her blood. He had no problems watching this. "Like with Holy Water and a priest?"

Snape's eyebrows rose but he didn't look away from his task. "Hardly. With a spell."

"I never even heard of a spell; did someone teach him?" Ron tried to probe, every once in a while checking to see he wasn't sloshing over the cauldron's rim.

"You'd be surprised," Hermione said. Her body was tense. She was pallid and her lips were drawn in a harsh line. Ron wagered she hated this procedure as much if not more than he did. "Harry's been reading so much lately, more than any of us guessed. It was his idea about the Abrumalum spell, no one—ouch!"

Snape muttered an apology and hurriedly capped the vial while Hermione healed her cut. He set the blood down with a careless thunk, probably out of haste, and undid the buttons at his wrist. The black material of his robes rolled up his forearm and Ron noted with relief this wasn't the arm with the Mark. It was though, he noted, the first time he'd ever seen much of Snape's skin. Ron hoped it was also the last.

"Cast it, Granger," he snapped, eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

Hermione readied the vial and poised her wand. Snape's wound was a bit larger than Ron's had been initially, but Snape didn't seem to care. He helped her angle the vial until blood rapidly filled it.

Ron remembered to keep stirring, even when his arms started to ache.

No one but the Healers, Snape, Hermione and Dumbledore were allowed to see Harry for long days. The camp was assured that he was alive, but few knew how close he teetered to death.

It became apparent on the first raid back at the field that all of the Death Eaters had not died with Voldemort, as Snape and Dumbledore had previously assumed. The theory had been concocted over long months of research and once sufficiently hypothesized, Snape began a rigorous set of Protection spells and Runes to ensure his own safety.

"I don't understand," Dean whispered to Ron during a tactical meeting. "I thought they said the Death Eaters were history."

"Apparently they were wrong," Ron whispered back, flushing when Snape caught his eye and frowned.

"Where's Hermione?" Dean asked. Ron was very sick of his questions at this point.

"Probably with Harry. I dunno."

Dean bit his lip and Ron was acutely aware of Snape's eyes still being on them. "It's bad, isn't it?"

Ron debated how he should answer, but Dean wasn't stupid and Ron wasn't a very good liar. "Yeah, I think it is. But he's alive."

"And Voldemort's not."

Dean and Ron exchanged a small smile, one of the little celebrations they had all been trading, since there was no time or energy for parties with all the clean-up and Death Eater troubles.

"Weasley." Snape's voice jerked him from fitful slumber without pre-emption. Ron sat up with his wand pointed straight at Snape's heart. The man's thin lips curled into something like his old sneer. "Potter's awake."

"Har—"

But Snape was already gone, Ron's tent flap fluttering in his wake. Hurriedly Ron swung himself out of bed, wrestling on a new pair of trousers that weren't slept in or covered in any manner of filth. He didn't stall; just made sure everything was in place before tearing out of there. He headed in the direction of Harry's tent, now an improvised one-room hospital separate from the Infirmary.

Hermione, Snape, and a mediwizard Ron didn't recognize crowded around Harry's bed, blocking him from view. Ron could see he was sitting up, legs covered by blankets, but the look he so longed to get of Harry's face was impossible.

"Ron!" Hermione called suddenly, sharp and startling. He looked over at her and saw that her eyes were equally strange. "You—Harry's—"

"I know," Ron said, and it _was _rather self-evident; he had to know Harry was awake, or he wouldn't be here. Wasn't allowed to be here normally.

"I think you should go," Hermione said, licking her lips before starting to explain, but Snape interrupted her as he was wont to do now.

"Granger, we both know there's no real harm in Weasley's presence." His tone didn't match the words. Snape's dislike for him (and vice versa) was loudly broadcast, so why was he pushing for Ron to stay? Pushing _Hermione_? "Let him come up before Dumbledore gets here."

The mediwizard, who was somewhat bulky, made room for Ron to stand next to the bed. Ron's eyes settled on Harry, his face unnaturally gaunt and without spectacles. Green eyes were narrowed and strained as Harry stared blankly in front of him, not even glancing up at Ron when he took his place near Harry's side.

"Harry?" Ron tried cautiously.

"Severus, this is… Ron should…" Hermione stuttered desperately, putting an anxious hand to her face and shaking her head. "We have to explain!"

"Explain what?" Ron asked. He kept his eyes on Harry, but lifted his face in her direction.

"Harry. He's not. Well, Harry's still—"

"He's got residual brain damage, and severe dehydration. And that's not including anemia from all of those transfusions." The mediwizard spoke quickly, quietly, obeying the command tension had over the tent and its inhabitants. "I'm afraid Mr. Potter is suffering from retrograde amnesia."

"He remembers… Not a lot. I don't..." She stopped, apparently unable to continue. She looked defeated, exhausted, and close to hysteria.

"Does he remember any of—any of it?" Ron asked. His throat felt too tight, like someone had an angry hand clutched around it.

"No," said Hermione in a ragged little whisper. "He doesn't even remember the Dursleys."

"Luckily Mr. Potter is as much a fully-functioning adult as he was before—" Snape snorted but everyone ignored him "—and there should be no problems on that score. However… There is the issue of his former..."

Ron tuned him out. It was too much. Without thinking, he reached out and touched Harry's shoulder, bony and hard underneath the soft pajamas. Harry started almost imperceptibly under the touch but didn't look up. "Harry?" he tried. "Do you… I'm…" Without words, he looked up at the mediwizard who was watching them silently. "What do we do?"

"Wait for Dumbledore," Snape said.

"But—"

"Nothing is to be done without Dumbledore," Snape said firmly, looking at Ron with nothing like sympathy in his eyes. "We won't discuss _anything_, Weasley, until we know how Albus wishes to proceed."

"How he wishes? How _he_ wishes?" Ron drew himself up to his considerable height (taller than Snape now, to boot) and stared him down. "Shouldn't it—"

"Ron, we can't. We have to wait for Dumbledore."

Ron looked over at Hermione, who wasn't looking anywhere in Harry's direction. Dumbly he glanced down at Harry, who stared right back with unflinching green eyes, and it startled him, the sudden response to Ron. Just moments before Harry had acted like he was in some sort of trance.

"I…" Harry had to stop and cough, fighting the disused hoarseness of his throat. "I knew you? You were my friend?"

"Yeah," Ron answered. Harry's use of the past tense was somewhat jarring, and Ron's own voice was nearly as hoarse as Harry's, but he couldn't claim forced silence from a magical coma.

"And they…" Harry gestured with a limp hand to Hermione and Snape. "Them too?"

Both Hermione and Snape stayed silent so Ron answered. "Yeah," he said, not wishing to confuse matters with a 'well, the girl is, but you kind of hated that bloke's guts.' "Them too."

"Mr. Potter needs quite a few… medicines, I'm afraid." Even Ron noticed Snape's judicious use of the word 'medicines' over 'potions.' It shocked him into realizing further how much Harry's mind was damaged. _He couldn't remember a thing. _"Mr. Weasley, if you please?"

Ron stepped aside, still holding Harry's wary gaze. There was frankness in it now, a naïvety that hadn't been there at all before. Harry looked so _young_. No knowledge of Voldemort, of the Dursleys, nothing of war and desperation shone thereonly a timid sort of worry. Ron was not used to being this able to read Harry's emotions and it bothered him more than the rest.

He had no more time to dwell; Snape handed Harry three vials (Ron dimly recognized them as being blood fortifiers and hydration elixirs, although the class and strength were beyond him) and Harry studied them gawkily before swallowing each. The hydration elixir, purple and thick, went down with a grimace.

"He should sleep now," the mediwizard informed them. Ron took the hint and backed away further from Harry's bed. Hermione stayed where she was, but Snape collected the vials so carefully they didn't even clink together and retreated as well.

"Give him the… red vial." Ron recognized it as Dreamless Sleep. He was over-aware of how careful everyone was to not clue Harry into what exactly he'd forgotten. "And make sure to feed him as soon as he wakes up again—"

"Yes, thank you, Professor." The mediwizard's voice had been soft and low, patient throughout, but it was tinged with irritation, and if anyone could irritate a fucking Saint, it would be Severus Snape.

"He's a teacher?" Harry asked, looking at the mediwizard. And Ron should have known his name, but that was too personal, like getting too close to death. "But I thought… He's not a doctor?"

"It's complicated, but rest assured you are in good hands."

Ron started to walk away, Snape close at his heels. Hermione wasn't moving but she wasn't standing over Harry's bed and fussing, which was what Ron expected her to do.

"Granger!" Snape barked, yanking Hermione out of her reverie.

"Oh, yes. Well." She looked over at Harry; his eyelids were drooping and his torso was sagging under the effects of the Dreamless Sleep. "Good…bye, Harry."

Snape snorted his bitter version of a laugh. Hermione scurried towards Ron and Snape, avoiding both of their gazes as she pushed past them into the open air outside the stifling tent. Ron watched her busy mess of hair swaying along with her hasty steps. She'd behaved strangely, to say the least.

An hour later, Dumbledore stood in the middle of Snape's tent, wearing his usual half-moon spectacles and glittering purple robes. He looked untouched by the war, and Ron found that disquieting; he assumed Dumbledore would weather the losses harder than anyone, but the only sign of distress on the wrinkled face was the lack of a smile. His eyes even retained their twinkle when he offered Ron a seat.

"It appears that we have a problem."

"Sir?" Hermione asked tentatively. "You've… seen Harry, haven't you?"

"Indeed I have, indeed I have. Harry seems to have acquired severe memory loss. This is most unfortunate." The bland, innocuous tone reminded Ron of the 'chat' he'd been called in for during sixth year, when his Charms grade started to fall. Dumbledore sat him down, offered him sweets, and started to ruminate merrily on the pitch of Molly Weasley's screaming howler, back when Bill's Transfiguration grade slipped. _I daresay my eardrums have never quite recovered._ Ron's grade was back up by the next month but he couldn't help feeling manipulated and patronized. There was just something about Dumbledore, something beyond the façade of calm and wisdom, and it was starting to get at Ron's nerves.

"What are we to do about Malfoy and the others?" Snape butted in. Ron and Hermione both stared at him disbelievingly. He was asking after Lucius fucking Malfoy at a time like this?

"A good question, Severus, one which incidentally leads to the questions Mr. Weasley and Ms. Granger are no doubt contemplating." Ron stiffened as he watched the old man speak, not liking anything about his attitude. He was too jovial, too _normal_ to be real. "Harry is in no state to fight. However, I'm positive the remaining Death Eaters have already begun the hunt for him." Dumbledore sat down on a stool Snape had set out, adjusting his robes over his legs as he did so. "It would seem the death of Voldemort has not disbanded them. Far from it, in fact. They are uniting to continue the fight against our forces."

"Mr. Potter seems an unlikely target now," Snape pointed out. "The Death Eaters never saw him as anything as nuisance, part of the Dark Lord's plan, part of some stupid prophecy. With Malfoy ostensibly in power, I doubt they will be wasting energy on him."

"Ah, but Harry's death would all but cripple our ranks," Dumbledore murmured, twinkling at Snape, who did not look like he appreciated being corrected yet again on the subject of Harry Potter. "It would leave us wide open for defeat."

There was a pause. Snape realigned some vials on his work table. Ron alternated between watching him and eyeing Dumbledore. The old wizard still conveyed an irritating air of serenity under the circumstances. But Dumbledore was right. Harry was a target and he couldn't defend himself against a fucking Jellylegs curse, let alone a full-scale manhunt and attack.

"You overestimate Potter's significance, I think." It was hard to say whether or not Snape meant that to be as slighting as it sounded. Then again it was Snape, and there was no love lost on his and Harry's account. "Though I do agree that he's not safe."

"What are we going to do?" Ron asked.

Dumbledore turned and met his gaze directly, which was about as comfortable to return as staring straight at the sun. "Harry will be informed of the situation—" Hermione made a noise like she'd choked, "—and we will take precautions to ensure his safety."

"He'll _never_ believe us!" She hastened to argue, wrenching her potion-stained hands desperately. "About magic, about Voldemort… about anything."

"I'm sure he will come to realize the truth if we show him a few tricks." Dumbledore flicked his wand pointedly. "It may even help him to remember."

"So, what?" Ron said impatiently. "We're going to tell him all this and stash him away somewhere? Are you going to put the Fidelius charm on him?"

"You would be correct, Mr. Weasley." Ron suddenly noticed Dumbledore's tendency towards calling Harry and Snape and his parents by their first names, but patronizing everyone else with 'Mister' and 'Miss.' "He will of course be accompanied by someone able to protect him, should that need arise. Ms. Granger?"

Hermione looked up, wide-eyed and face devoid of all color. "S-sir?" she stuttered. Ron could understand her terror; if Dumbledore was suggesting Hermione protect Harry, he was barmy. Her spells and wand work were both textbook-perfect, but instincts couldn't be learned from one.

"Do you agree," Dumbledore started, head cocked as he studied her, "that Mr. Weasley would be an ideal choice for the job?"

"What?" both Ron and Snape asked.

"I… oh!" Two spots of red returned to her cheeks and she ceased wringing her hands. "Yes, yes. Ron is an excellent choice, Headmaster." Her relief at not being selected was evident in the slapdash way she threw off her agreement. The Hermione Ron knew wouldn't have agreed to anything involving anyone's safety without a shrewd moment or two of meditation. "But… you're sure telling Harry about the wizarding world is a good idea?"

"Completely, my dear. And should Mr. Weasley need to use magic, as I'm certain he will, it will save Harry a lot of shock and hurried explanations."

"But the psychological impact—"

"Will be far lessened if we answer all of his questions _now_, as a group. Surely you don't wish to leave the stressful task to Mr. Weasley?"

Hermione shook her head. "No, sir. I suppose you're right."

"Excellent!" Dumbledore chirped, standing from his stool with a great swoop of his sleeves. "Now that it's settled, let me arrange the safe house and other matters. Severus, if you could update me on Harry's progress through the night, we'll be moving him in the morning." Snape nodded briskly. "Good, good. Mr. Weasley, Ms. Granger, I suggest you two get some much needed rest."

He packed up his tent as soon as he returned to it. The next morning, Ron purposefully slept through Snape and Dumbledore's crash-course of magic. Hermione missed it too, stayed behind to mix batch upon batch of Dreamless Sleep and other potential necessities for Ron and Harry's seclusion. It hadn't really hit Ron yet, exactly what he'd be doing and what he had agreed to. Possible months of no one but Harry and the occasional message from Snape or Dumbledore, hiding out like… the Potters had. No small amount of ominous irony.

When he finally woke and got dressed, Dumbledore and Harry were waiting for him in Snape's tent. Hermione was nowhere to be found.

"Glad to see you're up, Mr. Weasley. Harry," Dumbledore turned to Harry, but Harry was staring at the floor and most likely didn't notice, "this is Ronald Weasley. You may remember him from his visit yesterday. He and Ms. Granger were your two best friends at school."

Harry suddenly looked up. "Hog—" but it cut off and he went back to studying the floor with exaggerated intensity. There was a flare of hope in Ron's stomach; was it possible Harry remembered Hogwarts somehow, was it buried in his subconscious?

"Hogwarts, yes, as I said." Dumbledore smiled kindly.

The hope wilted and turned to resignation. "Hello," Ron tried, feeling awfully stupid and gawky. Harry nodded at the floor. "Is he all packed?" Directed at Dumbledore, clearly; talking casually to the cowering facsimile of Harry was too much too fast.

"Yes. I understand Harry did not take much. Just clothing and a few other items."

"Wh—" The reasons were obvious when Ron took a moment to think about it. "Oh, yeah. You wouldn't know what to do with half of it, would you?"

Harry shook his head and started in on staring at his feet again. His hair was its usual mess, his clothes plain and functional, his trainers scuffed, battered. The old Hogwarts trunk was sitting off in a corner, his initials shining in gold. Everything looked as it should. Everything was wrong. Ron didn't want to go anywhere with this Harry Potter, let alone be shut in a house with him for months. The overdue panic began to fill him and he had to fight against saying something or fidgeting.

"You are packed as well?" Dumbledore asked. Ron nodded. "Good. Ms. Granger wants a word with you before you and Harry Portkey to the safe house."

"Portkey, sir?" Portkeys were notoriously unreliable in high-security incidents. They could be tracked, and if it was Ministry authorized… However much the Ministry was crumbling under Voldemort's onslaught, they still took official responsibilities seriously, perhaps in an attempt to bolster what normalcy was left in the world.

"You will destroy them when you arrive," Dumbledore directed. "There is no risk of being tracked." He sounded certain but Ron still wasn't.

"Where's Hermione?"

"She and Severus are tending in the Infirmary tent."

"Do I have time to go talk with her?"

"Yes. The Portkey activates in one hour. I'd like you back here with your belongings well before that, if you please."

Ron nodded again, ignoring Dumbledore's incessant twinkling, and walked towards the tent flap. As a Potions tent, it was charmed not to flutter and let any air in or fumes out unless specifically modified. His own wouldn't resist fluttering even with multiple Petrificus spells on it.

"I'll be back soon, sir."

Hermione seemed irritated to see Ron because she was overrun with patients to dispense potions to. With a quick word to Snape, who tried to make it an extended argument, she wiped her hands on her apron and met Ron by the front of the Infirmary. He immediately cast a Silencing spell and a few wards just to be on the safe side.

"You're leaving soon?"

"Yeah, in less than an hour." She couldn't have asked to speak with him for conversation. Ron thought she'd wanted to say goodbye but from the look of things she didn't. "Do you know how long we'll be gone?"

"Dumbledore didn't say. Ron…" Gently she placed her warm hand on his arm. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and it was the first time he had felt her skin on his for a long time. The touch made him shiver imperceptibly. "You have to be careful with Harry."

"I know that!" He hadn't meant to snap. Still, the loftily instructive look in her eyes rankled him; he wasn't a child, he knew things with Harry would be difficult, fragile even.

"Ron, he's going to be like a child! I don't believe doing magic around him is a good idea, no matter what Dumbledore may think. We shouldn't have told him in the first place, it's stupid to expect him to come to terms with all of this…" Started off on a rant, Hermione didn't notice him rolling his eyes and shifting weight from foot to foot impatiently.

"I already know the lecture, Hermione. If you're so convinced Dumbledore's botched this up maybe you should ask him to send _you_ along instead of me."

She sighed and pulled her hand away. "That's not it at all. I'm worried. And months in seclusion is going to be _miserable_, Ron, have you thought about that?"

"We don't have a choice! Harry's fucking memory is gone and he needs to be protected. If you have a better idea, please say so because I'd love to hear it."

"I don't have any ideas," she said. "Not one. Be _careful_, Ron. Now, I'm going to try and have Dumbledore send me out to see you in the safe house, or if Snape is going I'll include some books or something." She chewed her lip, lost in thought. "Damn. I wish I had more time…"

Grumbling, Ron pulled over a chair and sat down heavily in it. No doubt Hermione had a lot of instructions to unload on him.

Hermione's "instructions" were more of a huge lecture and took up the better part of Ron's allotted hour. He had to hurry back to his tent and shrink his luggage, tucking it into his pockets for the walk back to Snape's tent. When he got there, Harry was clutching the handle of his trunk fiercely and staring at Snape's work table. Better than the floor, at least.

Dumbledore handed him a crumpled parchment and instructed Harry to grab an end. "I will be in contact with you when the need arises, to refurbish supplies and the like. If there is an emergency we will know as I have placed monitoring spells on both you and Harry." He turned to look at Harry then. "Do not fret, Harry. Soon you'll have your memory back and all will be right as rain. And as I understand it, Mr. Weasley is pleasant company."

Ron spared him a sarcastic half-smile and went back to waiting. A minute, forty seconds, thirty…

"Mind your steps at the front of the house."

He had no time to reply before the Portkey activated.


	3. Act III: Patrocinor

Title: Post Bellum  
Author: ginandironic  
Summary: Harry has memory loss after the last battle with Voldemort; Ron tries to help him regain it.  
Pairing: Ron/Harry  
Rating: NC-17  
Warnings: Mentions of het, angst, rageful characters.  
Notes: Written for the hprwfqf challenge #45: Harry has memory loss after the last battle with Voldemort; Ron tries to help him regain it. Primordium "origin," Propositum "theme of discourse," Patrocinor "to protect." Thank you to Xander for his greatly appreciated and excellent beta-pedantry. Without him, this fic would suck. More than it does, that is. Thanks are also due for J's help, encouragement, and sheer patience for putting up with me through this train wreck. Love you as always, darling. THIS CHAPTER WAS EDITED FOR FFNET; EMAIL ME (link in profile) TO RECEIVE A LINK TO THE UNEDITED, NC-17/MA VERSION.

**Act III: Patrocinor **

It started to rain almost the moment he and Harry recovered their bearings long enough to look around. They were at the front steps of a decent-sized cottage, beige with eggplant-purple trim and shutters. The windows were boarded shut; aside from that odd detail, the cottage was ordinary, unobtrusive, and picturesque enough to be pleasant but not enough of anything to draw attention. It was also charmed to help the illusion of innocuousness along.

The drizzle matted Ron's hair. He walked in front, trying not to jump every time Harry's trunk knocked against a stone step, and adjusted the grip on his wand anxiously. It was hard to see through the droplets of water continually clouding his vision. "Harry, stop."

Stopping dead, a terrified Harry looked over his shoulder at Ron. "W-what is it?"

"You need to get in front of me. We're open for attack."

Harry seemed hesitant. "We're nearly at the front door."

"That doesn't matter." He didn't bother to explain about how fast and how far spells and curses could travel, just waited edgily for Harry to step in front of him. When he did Ron urged him to keep walking. "Nearly there, as you said."

Harry's posture was ramrod-straight as he walked. The rain was getting heavier and the both of them started when thunder cracked, Ron instantly lifting his wand, Harry dropping his trunk. "Shit." He bent to pick it back up but Ron stopped him and cast a levitation charm.

They reached the door and Harry jiggled the handle uselessly. "How do I…?"

Ron released the spell and the trunk clattered to the ground. Ron stepped up even with Harry and chanted to unlock the door—courtesy of Bill's experience with rare locking spells. Only a few members of the Order knew of it and Bill told him no amount of _Alohomoras_ and the like would ever work. Harry glanced at him oddly for the chanting but the door gave way with a faintly ominous creak. Ron all but shoved Harry inside the house, followed him and slammed the door shut.

"There's no light," Harry murmured, feeling the walls. "How—" Ron waved his wand and all the antiquated lanterns mounted on the walls flickered to life. "Oh."

The cottage was astonishingly modern, given the old fashioned lighting. There was a kitchen, its walls spelled a cheerful daisy-yellow, an icebox, a small stocked pantry, and a thick oak table. The stove had knobs totally unfamiliar to Ron, so he guessed they were Muggle and for Harry's benefit. He tried his wand with it and found it lit fine, so he could use it as well. The icebox wasn't spelled cold either but ran from elecktrickity (or whatever it was his father was so fascinated with).

"I'm going to go have a bath, is that all right?"

Ron was engrossed in studying the kitchen and distractedly waved Harry off. Belatedly, he hoped the bathroom was set up for Muggles too. He made himself a ham and cheese sandwich, making sure to carefully rewrap the items and stash them neatly inside the buzzing icebox again.

He wandered through the rest of the house eating his sandwich, noting the chess set and multiple books, though it looked as if scarce few of them would be to his interest; a favor to ask Dumbledore for others if he got the chance. There were two bedrooms and one bathroom, the one Harry was currently occupying. A den and a few storage closets. Not much to do, aside from that chess set and those boring books scattered here and there. Ron immediately gathered which bedroom was his; it was off-white and rather sparse but it had a magical alarm radio and a lone Quidditch magazine on his bed. Harry's room was also off-white but livened up by a few paintings—Muggle, of course; it would probably freak him out to have someone's likeness staring at him and attempting to make conversation.

When he came back to his own room and began to put his clothes away, he spotted an envelope lying on his dresser. Ron recognized Dumbledore's curving script on its front: "Ronald Weasley." Ron opened it, nearly giving himself a paper cut in the process, and cursing he held the parchment up to the light to squint at the contents.

Quickly apparent were two things: Dumbledore really had no idea when they would be able to come out of hiding, although the logical conclusion was they would return after Harry regained his magic. No amount of magical training could ever make up for the years of schooling and precision Harry had garnered, it would seem pretty foolish to teach him even simple defense spells, but Ron figured a few first-year spells wouldn't hurt and vowed to ask Dumbledore for Harry's wand.

Secondly, Snape was their Secret Keeper, which Ron secretly found hysterical. Secretly, because the only person Ron could share this joke with was Harry, who only had a fleeting impression of Snape, no bitter history and no idea why this stupid situation would be funny. Hysterical, because Snape was top priority for You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters: instructions were, the Order heard, to take him alive so they might make an example of him.

Ron didn't even mention the letter when Harry stepped out from the loo, a towel wrapped his waist and looking somewhat refreshed. It was tucked away in his pocket, not to be thought of.

The first few days Harry was unnervingly quiet. The only noises he made were during dinner or when he needed something: "please," and "thanks," the only whispered acknowledgements of Ron's actually being there. He never asked questions, never asked for news. Dumbledore did eventually write back and instructed Ron to write any requests on the back of his parchment; he did and in the morning it was gone, presumably sent back.

They sat in the living room after another full day of nearly not speaking. The trite attempts at conversation Ron made hardly counted, as they went unnoticed. Ron was a bit chilled but didn't want to risk turning up the fire with his wand; Harry got odd about it, and they truly didn't need anymore oddness. Instead he tugged his sleeves down and situated his legs so they were nearly tucked underneath him, a feat considering their length.

"So," Harry began, while Ron was in the middle of gradually being hypnotized by the dancing flames. "I guess we're not allowed outside?"

Ron earlier had told him of the last note from Dumbledore, which was nothing more than a pathetic attempt to boost morale with "we're even closer than before." Coming closer to what, exactly, was Ron's question, but you couldn't take anything Dumbledore said for what it was in the first place. "Uh, it's imperative that we stay inside for the wards. Or something."

"The protection… stuff." Harry nodded and didn't even look discomfited by the idea.

He went back to his book. Ron went back to staring unblinkingly at the fire. Every now and then Harry would turn a page and the rustling would snap Ron into looking over until he got used to it.

Sometimes it was easy to forget the changes in Harry, considering. He seemed so _normal_ most of the time: unlike himself, yes, but quiet and calm, if not content. He rarely asked questions and hadn't expressed anything like awe or fear towards Ron's magic and the Wizarding World—his former life. He sat around and read and every day cooked by hand, except for the one time Ron made lunch, and it was that which emphatically reminded Ron how _not with it_ Harry really was.

Hermione had said he was "fragile." Likened him to a block of clay or a baby, all impressionable and wide-eyed and easily distracted. "You have to be careful," she had warned, "you could upset him." Ron thought she was being forgiving and optimistic. When you got down to it, Harry could be downright mad.

Ron cooked lunch. He made sandwiches and tomato soup, brought it to Harry on a tray at the table, sitting down to serve them. They ate in relative silence. Harry didn't seem off, insofar as Ron could tell, but you couldn't be sure. When they were done eating, Ron waved his wand and watched with half-interest as all the dishes flew off the table and sailed into a now-sudsy sink, cleaning themselves niftily–a trick learned from his mum. He got up and read the old paper left for them, settling down into another day of nothing.

Harry didn't say much the rest of the day. Once he asked Ron if there'd been news from Hermione again; Ron shook his head no.

When it was evening, Harry got up and started making spaghetti. He set out the noodles and boiled water, chopped up zucchini and sliced mushrooms to go in with the tomato sauce, and molded spiced beef into neat, fist-sized balls. Ron went to the loo and passed the kitchen on the way, noticed the sauce was lopping about too nosily in the pan. He turned the flames down with his wand before Harry could do it manually, standing across the tiled floor in his bare feet and bored expression. Harry blinked at him and Ron turned, closing the door to the bathroom without a word.

While he washing up he heard a loud clang and figured Harry was draining the pasta. He studied his face for a moment in the mirror—it was time for a shave, and any magical mirror would have fussed at him for it—before flicking off the light and opening the door.

Immediately Ron could smell the burning meatballs. He must have made a sound because Harry, bent over the sink, jerked into movement. After flinging a serving spoon against the counter to his left, Harry started sobbing, or started sobbing louder; it wasn't clear. His whole body shuddered with it. Harry slammed his palms against the porcelain inlay of the sink, noises escalating until he was all-out panting, nearly screaming. "I hate it," he spat raggedly. "I hate it, I hate it, I hate it, I hate it."

"Harry—" Ron took a step towards him.

"IHATEITIHATEITIHATEIT," Harry went on, ranting and crying and letting the meat burn. Ron took care of that before there was a fire, but once the danger was out the way he couldn't think to do anything else. He kept standing, wand held loosely in his fingers, and watched as Harry broke down. "I hate it." On and on, the words harshly and rapidly said until the sounds were almost comically merged.

"Harry." Ron tried to say it again loudly, to get his attention, but the words choked around his closed throat. He'd not seen Harry like this for a very, very long time, not since fifth year at Grimmauld Place, but this Harry was a new Harry who didn't yell and scream at Ron and Hermione. He yelled and cried to _himself_, to the kitchen counter, to the sink, to fucking spaghetti. "Harry, please."

Harry did seem to make a concerted effort. He stopped erratically throwing things or pushing himself against the counter violently and only stood in place, crying softly. "I'm so… I'm so useless. I feel like I'm dead."

"I…" There was nothing to say. Ron couldn't even imagine what it would be like to wake up with not even a faint idea of yourself and to be told you were a wizard in the middle of a war. Harry probably thought he was crazy, or worse yet hallucinating. "I'm sorry?" It was the best Ron's mind, stunted as it was in the moment, could come up with.

Harry sucked in a deep breath of air and made a sound that scarily resembled laughter. "I know that. You've been nothing but… whatever."

"Look, Harry—" He was planning to go off on some mildly comforting if awkward rambling speech about how everything would be all right and that he knew things were terrible, but if Harry could just wait. But Harry turned around so suddenly and caught Ron's gaze, held it intently and looked like he desperately wanted to speak. "Harry?"

"They said we were best friends?" The question was in an unexpectedly harsh tone, and it took Ron aback?

"Well, yes." He had to wonder about this sudden change in… whatever it was. One minute Harry's crying and hysterical and Ron's completely lost, but then he's asking questions? Not that Ron was any less lost than before.

"You… do you… miss. Me?"

Ron blinked. "Uh, yeah."

"During… that war. Were you. Did you see me everyday?"

"No, we weren't… close. I mean, physically."

Harry stared at him in befuddlement. "But I thought the camp was pretty close? Closed in, like?"

"Well." He shifted uncomfortably and dropped his wand onto a nearby counter, lest he twist it in his hands and accidentally light something on fire. "It was. But you were important. You know? I didn't see you much towards the end. And it was a lot different than school." He almost snorted at the understatement.

"Did you miss me then?" Harry's voice turned desperate again, hardly more than a whisper.

"Oh, well. Yes. Of course."

"But not like you miss me now." It wasn't a question.

"No, not like now." Ron wasn't sure what was going on, nor why Harry was looking so terribly sad and thoughtful all at once.

"I'm sorry," Harry said quietly.

"No!" His reassurance came out strange and vehement, like he was chastising Harry. Ron immediately blushed and stammered through elucidating. "Don't worry about it." 'Mate' nearly came out by habit and he had to all but stomp on it, figuratively speaking.

They stood in the kitchen, gracelessly silent until Harry sighed despondently. Tension leaked out of his frame, dragging down his shoulders, but it was more like exhaustion finally taking over him and leaving him limp underneath its force.

"I should take care of dinner," Ron offered, eyeing the meatballs and the probably soggy pot of noodles.

"No, no." Harry waved him off and moved completely away from the sink. He started turning on the stove and adjusting the pans, the noise oddly metallic and loud after the queer silences. "Go sit down, it'll be ready in a bit."

"Fine. Let me know… if you need anything." Ron stared at Harry for a moment. He wasn't noticed. Not even when he turned around and walked back to his sofa by the fire.

"Dumbledore said he would give me your wand."

"What?" Harry stopped eating porridge long enough to look up at Ron, shocked.

"I asked if we could have it, in case it… helped." Upon seeing Harry's stunned and somewhat appalled expression, it didn't seem like a good idea at all. "You don't have to start doing magic if you really don't want to," he rushed to explain. "I just thought maybe you would want to play around with it. Er, I could show you a few spells, I mean. Easy ones." And maybe the focus and reality of a wand in Harry's hand would either trigger his memory or stop another indiscriminate flip-out.

"Oh." Harry blinked and returned to his porridge. His spoon listlessly prodded at the sodden stuff and made little patterns in the milk. "So, was I a good wizard?"

Ron inwardly debated on how he should answer the question. "Yeah, you were great. You defeated You-Know-Who—"

"Voldemot?"

His breath caught. Even a close derivative still made his heart beat faster, and the bastard was dead. "Voldemort," he said with some precision, and Harry was oblivious to the significance of Ron's saying it. "You defeated, er, him, and he was said to be the most powerful wizard, next to Dumbledore or Merlin."

Harry looked up again. "There was a real Merlin?"

"Yeah. There was. We even have an award."

"How will it get here?"

"What?"

"My… wand."

"The same way the food gets here." Ron didn't feel like explaining how Dumbledore ported them food or whatever it was he did, mainly because Ron had no clue.

"Magic?"

"Of course."

But Ron was wrong.

A knock at the door two hours later startled him so thoroughly he nearly forgot to reach for his wand. His hands scrambled for it, knocking over Harry's book in the process, and stood up. "Stay out of sight but don't go far. Scream if you need me."

Somewhere in his fog of fear and anger, Ron heard Harry retreating. Another knock sounded. Ron pointed his wand in the direction of the person he assumed was standing behind the door. _Death Eater_, his mind kept supplying, _Death Eater_.

"R—er. Hello! It's me."

Hermione's voice nearly bowled Ron over, but he wasn't convinced. "Hermione?"

"Yes!" She, or whoever it was, brightened considerably.

"What form does your Patronus take?" he asked, searching for anything unique to her.

She sighed. "An otter. But really, anyone could know that. Ah, how about that time I tripped and fell at… your house and I was wearing ugly knickers?" Ron noticed how she carefully avoided saying 'the Burrow.'

The strangeness of the comment, not to mention Hermione acknowledging something she seemed to previously find horrifying, took him off guard. No one else would have known, however, as both Ron and Harry had been unexpectedly closed-mouth about it.

"Why are you here?"

"Yes, I'm really going to answer that out in the open like this." Hermione had that incredibly ability to make him feel five years old. "Just let me in. You can put a Body Bind on me if that will help." There was a pause. "You would, of course, have to let me out of it eventually."

"I'm opening the door," he said sullenly, pretty much certain it was Hermione, but he kept his wand raised just in case. He whispered the chant to unlock it and it swung open, creaking again in that bloody menacing fashion.

Hermione stood on the top step, bag on her shoulder. It was raining out. Ron hadn't realized. "Hi there," she said, and pushed past him in a hurry.

Ron closed the door behind her and muttered the chant again. A thought struck him. "Wait, why didn't you let yourself in?"

Hermione was busy hanging up her scarf and jacket. "Because, Ron, I don't know the chant. And even if I had, I doubt it would be a good idea if I just marched in unannounced. I'd be dead before I could say 'put your wand away.'"

She was right. Ron didn't say anything: he was sure it would make him sound like more of a dolt.

"I have Harry's wand," she eventually said, turning around. Her face was flushed but she looked to be in good spirits. Her hands were still stained a weak yellow from potions but she was Hermione, as ever. God, but it was good to see her. See anyone, really. "Is he…?"

"No, he's still not remembering anything." He hadn't thought he would have to explain this to Hermione, who was so fervently against Harry having anything to do with magic in his state.

"Why does he need his wand?" Suspicion colored Hermione's voice and even reflected in her eyes.

"I thought—and Dumbledore agreed—" which was kind of a lie, as Dumbledore hadn't outright said 'great idea, Mr. Weasley!", but anything to persuade Hermione he wasn't potentially harming Harry or a bigger fool than she first suspected. "I mean, we thought Harry should be familiar with it at least. Maybe it would help him, I don't know."

"You thought it would _help him_? Ronald Weasley—"

"Um, Ron, can I come out now?" Harry effectively cut Hermione off before she could work herself into a quivering, self-righteous rage. "Hello, Hermione." He was shy, and still hidden, but Ron got the feeling Harry was nearly ecstatic to see someone again. Ron tried not to feel bothered but failed. Miserably.

"Yeah, come out. Hermione brought your wand." She glowered at him impressively. Must have been taking lessons from Snape. "Give him his wand, would you? I'm going to go make tea."

The kettle was set on the stove, and Ron pulled out Earl Gray. He knew Harry favored it now, which struck him as curious. Harry usually only drank breakfast tea at Hogwarts, and he liked coffee now when he hadn't before. Harry was quite like half of a set of twins; Fred and George were the same and different, now that he thought about it in those terms. Fred liked chocolates, George liked jellybeans, Fred preferred sleeping in his pants, and George preferred flannel pajamas.

Harry and Hermione were speaking to each other, their voices deliberately hushed. Must have been private, or important. Though Ron could have walked back into the room and tried to strike up a conversation between the three of them, he didn't. Harry mentioned a few days before he'd like to speak with Hermione, see what she could tell him about Hogwarts. At the time Ron didn't think much of it, aside from yet more irritation at being presumed not good enough. Not good enough to ask simple fucking questions. Ron was every bit as magical as Hermione, if not a bloody fount of knowledge. He knew Harry better, too. Or at least he had.

Ron's hand shook almost imperceptibly when he poured the boiling water into their cups. He diligently added two pinches of sugar to Harry's and one to his, leaving Hermione's alone. Stupid, again, to start raging. Ron hated it, he hated the feelings and he hated the way it made him see red and want to scream. He didn't want to be that sort of a person but unfortunately he'd more than inherited his mum's famous temper. And what was he getting angry about? No matter what Harry did, it was obvious he didn't mean it as a slight.

When the tea was poured and everything was in perfect order, Ron couldn't delay coming out any longer. Still, he stalled and poured himself a glass of water, drinking two swallows before dumping out the rest. Some of it splashed up so high it flecked the window. He cleaned that. And he dried the sink off as well, not that it needed it, per se.

Finally Ron levitated the tray in front of him, making sure to be careful and not rattle the cups too much. Harry and Hermione were sitting side by side on _Ron's_ couch, heads together and talking quietly. Harry was smiling and Hermione reached out to squeeze his hand.

"I have the tea," he announced. He lowered the tray to the coffee table and grabbed his own cup. "Hermione, yours is on the right."

"Thanks, Ron," Harry said, tearing himself away from her long enough to smile in his direction. And if _that_ wasn't rare, Ron didn't know what was.

"Harry was telling me," Hermione started, blowing on her tea though it was hardly steaming anymore, "about how little you've told him about Hogwarts."

Ron blinked. He stared at Harry, who shifted, and then at Hermione, who stared back at him evenly, totally nonplussed. "I, er. He—I mean, you haven't asked all that much, Harry. Sorry if I wasn't…"

"Well, I told him a few things he might want to know," she breezily continued after sipping her tea.

"Oh?" Predictably, he was starting to inwardly seethe again and tried not to let on. How ridiculous and interfering and rude could Hermione get? Ron wasn't surprised, mostly angry and disappointed. It wasn't his job to carefully detail every single moment of Harry's life, and doing so would have probably yielded nothing! If Harry wanted to know, he could have fucking asked! Shite, those two were nitwits.

"Yes. I told him about which subjects he preferred, about Quidditch—" the look she gave him basically said 'and HOW could you not mention _Quidditch_?' "—and his friends. I told him about the House system and about the Slytherins, the professors. About Voldemort. About his parents."

Firstly, he felt guilty after realizing just how much he'd not said. Secondly, he sincerely doubted he was gone long enough for her to talk about that much, but Harry didn't seem to want to protest. "Did you tell him which toothpaste he liked?" Ron snapped, not liking Hermione's shrewd gaze and the self-reproach enveloping him.

"Ron, honestly. Don't be a child. Harry needs you to—"

"What the bloody hell do _you_ know about what Harry needs? I'm the one who has to live with him, Hermione! Not you! I have to live every day with this… this ghost who just doesn't fucking understand, doesn't remember _us_…" Abruptly he stopped, seeing Harry's face for the first time. He was shock-white and gripping Hermione's hand so tightly it looked like as though it might break. Ron cursed and stood up, raking a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. I'll just go."

He walked from the room, not seeing anything, especially not Harry's miserable expression and Hermione's glare.

Neither spoke of Hermione's visit and what transpired, but both were acutely aware of it. The silences stretched longer, the few moments of interaction more unsure. Harry never quite looked Ron in the eye, but he spent a lot of time staring at him, eyes constantly boring holes into the back of Ron's neck. Disarming, but a relief in view of under the circumstances.

Harry started to work with his wand. Ron watched him one night, eyeing a first year spell book Hermione brought him along with the wand itself, trying not to smile or say something while Harry grew more and more frustrated with trying to make red sparks. Or any sparks at all.

He eventually went back to his book and tuned Harry's fruitless attempts out.

About a half an hour later, Harry shouted, "Holy shit," and suffice to say Ron's curiosity was piqued. Harry's wand was streaming purple sparks, and Harry was smiling like a maniac. "That's it, then," he breathed. "I just have to do this certain motion with the wand and say the words. That's it!"

"Great job, Harry."

After three weeks of silence from Dumbledore's end and nothing but oddness and occasional magic from Harry's, Ron had to take a break. He was tired of looking across his kitchen table and seeing this eerie phantom who asked too many questions, who knew too much to be liked and yet not enough to be hated. He was_ tired_ of the look on Harry's face; detached interest and utter lack of familiarity anything. Ron thought it must be like looking at a child born with mental disabilities, the startling vacancy on Harry's face.

He pulled himself together. "I'm going to take a shower. Υou all right by yourself?" There was, after all, nothing left to do.

The Wireless, another gift from Hermione, was playing a news cast and Harry listened diligently. "I'm fine," he softly affirmed.

He wandered off to the loo, already lifting his shirt above his head and kicking off his shoes. They both landed haphazardly in the hall, forgotten for Harry to stumble upon. Unless Ron grew a cleaning-conscience.

The bathroom door opened and closed, leaving Ron in tinny silence. He caught his reflection in the mirror, shirtless and pale, and was reminded of Harry with Ginny so long ago. The memory of it still made his blood boil, his stomach clench, his mind reel. Ron knew it was stupid, bizarre even, to still hold resentment about something that obviously meant nothing to either party. At the same time, Harry's apology wasn't a good one at the time, nor particularly true. And now he had Harry for company and Harry only, a changed Harry to whom he couldn't vent his lingering frustration.

Sometimes he wanted shove Harry against the wall. He wanted to scream how Harry had never done one good thing in his life, not one, and he was lucky to have Ron and Hermione for his friends. They were loyal, damn him, and he so obviously wasn't. Fucking his _sister_, brushing the whole thing off like dirt, and moving on to Cho bloody Chang, then Luna, and some random girl in the showers. Because he just couldn't wait for more people to come back. He had to sink low, had to fuck anything that moved; Ron remembered looking at the girls at Hogwarts for hols, and none of them were even pretty. And _Lavender_, fucking her while she couldn't move her legs or communicate well. God knew what else Harry had done. He was disgusting and Ron wanted to tell him so.

But then he would remember Harry's still too-small body lying in Snape's tent, his eyes guileless. Or the tentativeness of his current state, the way the bones in his wrists looked fragile and ineffective as he stirred his tea, his face when he accomplished a simple spell. And he would feel like a prat. An arse. Some friend he was, throwing all of his past anger onto this shell of a person who only needed someone to look after him and his interests. Ron couldn't look at his reflection in the mirror when his judgment caught up with him.

He used his wand to turn on the shower, checking the warmth of the spray with his hand. When it passed muster he slid his trousers off and stepped into the shower full-stop, the water pelting him in an unexpectedly hard. Showering during the day was always an surreal experience for Ron; at Hogwarts too, after Quidditch practice, it had felt wrong to strip down and shower with sunlight streaming through the high windows.

Dumbledore provided them with shampoo that was different than any Ron remembered using. It smelled like apples—synthetic apples, but the smell was there nevertheless. Suds of it dripped down his back, slick and almost ticklish. He stared at the white around him, the cramped stall, the red flannel hanging. Head spinning unaccountably, Ron closed his eyes and stood still for a while as the steam began to rise like smoke.

The shampoo was gone from his hair. Ron thought about using the conditioner in there as well, but he didn't really need it. His hair was soft enough and didn't tangle. Tilting his head back, Ron closed his eyes again and blindly reached for the soap he knew rested along a ledge of the shower's molding.

A burst of cool air suddenly hit his body and instinctively his eyes popped open. "Harry?" he asked, dumbstruck. By the time Ron noticed Harry was not wearing his glasses or his _clothes_, he was dizzy with shock and confusion.

The shower was proven to be uncomfortably small for two people when Harry stepped inside and closed the door behind him. His arm was brushing Ron's chest, and his thigh was touching Ron's, and he was staring so sharply, biting his lip and shivering when the misty overspray of the water hit him.

Maybe Harry wanted closeness. Maybe he was lonely. Nothing else made sense. Ron thought it was abnormal, to say the least, but if it was what Harry wanted Ron would give it to him gladly. He awkwardly opened his arms as much as he could and Harry stepped into them right away. They _touched_ unexpectedly, Harry sliding against him so closely and burying his face in the crook of Ron's neck, arms going round Ron's waist.

"Ron," he mumbled; the vibrations against Ron's skin were intense.

He said nothing in reply. His fingers stroked the sleek skin of Harry's back, at a loss for something to do. Exposed and claustrophobic didn't begin to cover how fucked up he felt, but Harry was soft and quiet and relaxed in his arms. Which was good.

"Ron," Harry said again, unexpectedly wheedling under the muffle of Ron's skin. He pulled away and looked Ron in the eye, then studied his face at length. He bit his lip ceaselessly, and Ron kept up the gentle movement of his fingers. It was startling to feel okay now that the initial shock was gone. "Ron." Harry seemed incapable of saying anything else.

In the middle of a blink, Ron found himself with Harry's lips pressing urgently against his own. He gasped; Harry's mouth nipped and bit and licked desperately, and since his mouth was already partially open, Harry took advantage of it, flicking his tongue over Ron's teeth. Frozen, Ron considered his options: he could shove Harry away, probably violently if he went that route, or he could just wait it out. See what happened.

It should have been grossing him out. It didn't. Not really. Harry flush against him was so odd, the wetness, the slipperiness, half-hard and licking his mouth clumsily, but expertly at the same time, as if he knew that was how Ron liked it.

He remembered out of the blue how much Harry must favor fucking in showers. And he shoved him away.

"What—Harry, what?"

Harry didn't look at him. "I thought. Were we lovers, Ron? We were."

"_What_?" Staggered, Ron stared at him and was immediately annoyed when Harry wouldn't look back. He reached up and jerked Harry's chin so they faced. "What the fuck gave you that idea?"

"Just… stuff you said. You would look at me, but then you wouldn't, and then that time you said…" Harry broke off, and Ron suspected tears were welling. "Hermione, too, she was telling me about how you were really different around me, how our relationship changed and she couldn't fully explain it…"

"That—that—that wasn't why! I wasn't your… your whatever." His voice was rising, resounding in the acoustics of the shower. "It changed because you changed, Harry. You were… Merlin, I don't know what you were. I couldn't stand you."

"But you just…" Harry stopped himself again and looked away. He looked back before Ron could make him. "You let me in and you let me kiss you and you held me."

"I—" Explaining that was hard. How could he say he did it out of pity and fucking duty? Because he thought it might help. What a mess.

"You're hard," Harry murmured, and yes, Ron was, and the question emblazoned in Ron's mind was how and why and what the fuck and how had he not _noticed_? "You feel…" He moaned, set his cheek against Ron's shoulder and rocked against him once.

"Harry, I'm not, you're not, we're not poufs." He didn't think. Harry never appeared to like blokes.

"I think I am," Harry answered, kissing Ron's shoulder like it was nothing. "And Hermione said…"

The words were lost to Ron when Harry licked his jaw, and he dealt with the implication that perhaps he wasn't a virgin because he hadn't found the right girl. When he pushed it out of his mind, trying to think about how to get Harry to stop, to realize that Ron didn't want him: in fact that he hated him sometimes, passionately, more deeply than he had hated Malfoy, the fucking git. He felt betrayed and helpless and worthless and Harry stroking him was not going to erase all that. Ever.

"She said…" Harry groaned and his hand sped up, fingers furling around Ron's now fully erect length, squeezing around the base and rubbing forcefully at the head. "She said when I was in school I had sex with a guy. I told her about it."

"Hermione said you…"

"Yes," Harry answered, deep and breathless and most likely not caring when Ron's body stiffened and he clenched at Harry's back with painful strength. "During Christmas time. He was a… a Slyth—Slytherin, I think."

In the showers. In the showers, Harry was fucking someone, and it was a _boy's_ bathroom, why hadn't Ron thought of that in the first place, and dear Merlin it was probably _Malfoy_, why hadn't Harry or Hermione told him, oh God and his queer, whoring best friend was empty inside.

"I think I'm going to throw up," he panted. "Oh, God, I think I'm going to throw up."

"No, No, Ron." Harry lifted both of his hands to Ron's face and Ron was even more nauseated when he found he missed Harry's hand wrapped around him. His still Quidditch-callused palms and fingers stroked the side of his face, and he lifted his head up for a chaste kiss. "No, Ron, please. I just want to touch you. Please. Please just touch me. Ron."

Harry was in his bed, head tucked against Ron's chest and snoring quietly. They were both naked.

He remembered Harry sliding carefully to his knees in the shower, petting Ron's thighs as if he were a skittish animal. And when it was over, nothing could muffle the keening, painful shout Ron gave, fingers digging into Harry's scalp, black wet locks twisting around his fingers.

Death must have been coming for him. The burning shame and horror Ron felt was too powerful to be anything other than a descent towards hell. And Harry, wrapped around him so comfortably, so naively. When he got his memory back if Ron wasn't already dead or driven to suicide, Harry would surely kill him. And laugh. And scream, "you sick fucker." Because he was.

And he was gay, moreover. He knew it. It made sense. No straight bloke, even out of his right mind as Ron felt, got a blowjob from his amnesiac best mate and sickly, disgustingly craved more. This realization was almost as frightening as what he'd done.

"Ron?" Harry sleepily asked, stirring.

"Yeah?" His voice cracked. He'd expected it to.

"You all right?"

'No,' he mouthed. He grabbed Harry's hand and pulled it onto his lap, their fingers tangled together.

The real sex, two days later, was hideous to consider. At least initially. Harry said he read a book, and that he wanted to be with Ron. The earnest words were so hackneyed, so gross Ron nearly disagreed. He didn't in the end, staring at the fair expanse of Harry's back as he cooked breakfast for them. He couldn't, not when Harry's arse drew his attention every three minutes.

When it was over they didn't speak.

Three days of not leaving the bedroom more than a few times. They showered and wasted most the hot water until Ron remembered a heating charm. They ate sparing breakfasts and gorged at early hours, whatever they could find that was easy and quick. It felt great, the having sex, the kissing, the constant touching, the talking they managed to get in somewhere between everything else.

Ron fell asleep around four in the morning on the third day, exhausted.

When he woke it was to Dumbledore's face peering down at him, and he was in the Hogwarts Infirmary.

"Mr. Weasley." He twinkled as always. "Good to have you back."

"Where—you—"

"Mr. Potter is waiting to see you, I believe." He stood from the chair near Ron's bedside and walked away, robes swishing.

Harry came into the room almost noiselessly, wearing black robes and a closed expression. "Ron," he said, taking Dumbledore's vacant seat.

Nothing to say. Ron stared at Harry, trying to work out the words in his head; _what happened, why are we at Hogwarts, are you all right, where's Hermione, Harry, Harry, please_.

"Harry."

"It's over, Ron. I think it's all over." The war, he meant. It explained why they were at Hogwarts. Harry looked at Ron, clearly measuring him. Ron didn't know why or what he was looking for. "You should rest." With that he got up. He did linger at Ron's side and fiddle with the papers on his stand.

"Harry?"

"Go to sleep, Ron. _Nox_."

Before the light went out and Ron was thrown into shadows, he knew. He saw Harry's eyes. Harry was Harry again.

And Harry left, closing the Infirmary door behind him.

Finished.


End file.
